Pure Blood
by TheSlytherinSysters
Summary: Over the summer before sixth year, Harry begins to discover why pure blood is so important. Pairings decided. Event-compliant through DH, epilogue ignored.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Most of this was shamelessly borrowed and adulterate by the authors from J.K. Rowling. However, the answer to the question, why does pure blood matter?, and all related tidbits, are ours. If you'd like to play with them, please ask. If you steal them, we will find you. =D**

Chapter 1

"_I'm fine._"

Scrawled in messy script by a hand that had never learned how to properly hold a quill, the words loomed up from the ratty desk in the smallest bedroom, number four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. The words were promptly obscured by ink-stained fingers folding the missive. The fingers in question belonged to one, Harry Potter. It was the third such message to be penned in as many minutes, the latest addressed to Hermione Granger.

Harry bundled the three letters together with an old shoelace and attached them to the leg of his only companion, his owl. "The usual, Hedwig" Harry instructed, stroking her head and receiving only a reproachful peck for his efforts. Harry wondered absently if owls could read.

He moved away from the window, threading his way between boxes of broken toys and a tv with the screen kicked in. This wasn't a bedroom, more a place where rejected things went to be forgotten, or hopefully forgotten. Even the bed that Harry sank down onto groaned from the memory of another body, abusing its springs. The bed and everything else in the room were the abandoned and ignored cast-offs of an overweight and over-indulged child, Dudley Dursley. Unfortunately for the Dursleys, the presence of an almost-sixteen-year-old teenage nephew proved as un-ignorable as it was undesired.

Ironic, Harry thought, that, despite mutual distaste, he and the Dursleys were bound together by as flimsy a chain as ink and parchment.

_How are you? It's not your fault. Can't tell you. It's not safe. Top secret. Don't take risks. We're guarding you. Don't worry. What happened is not your fault. Trust Dumbledore. Stay safe…_

_Stay there._

And so he stayed, like the good little Golden Boy they wanted him to be, though he didn't feel very much like a Golden Boy anymore, but black with shame and regret, and red from the blood on his hands, all used up, like an old man.

The one thing that Privet Drive did provide in abundance was time to think. As Harry stared up at the stained and cracked ceiling, he wondered if this was a good thing.

Hermione liked things organized, she liked things neat. But this was just wrong. Books were meant to be shelved and ordered, rows and rows of familiar sameness. People were not.

Suppressing a shudder, she pressed a finger to the doorbell of Number Four, Privet Drive. A faint chime could be heard beyond the door, no doubt the same chime as every other doorbell on the street.

But when the door swung open, she highly doubted that the particular blend of arrogance, obesity and sheer stupidity could have its double in the world. The boy in front of her certainly took the cake and, under his leering gaze, she became uncomfortably aware of the shortness of her skirt.

She'd always thought that Harry's descriptions of his cousin were exaggerated, but she had to agree, he did rather resemble a pig, in more ways than one. "Well, hello," he said, leaning against the door in an effort to incite a reaction, though Hermione highly doubted the violent protests of the hinges was the desired one. "What can I do for you?"

Before she could respond, the incongruous form of a rail-thin woman appeared behind the boy. "Oh, Dudders, who's this?" She stuck out one bony hand, which Hermione shook. "Hello, I'm Petunia Dursley, Dudley's mother."

"It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Dursley," Hermione responded. "I'm Hermione Granger, and I'm a friend of Harry's. Is he home?"

The reaction was immediate. Mrs. Dursley went white, and withdrew her hand as if she'd just touched something unclean and rather smelly. "What do you want?"

"To see Harry. Is he home?" Hermione reiterated.

"Dad?" Dudley called, moving further into the house. "There's a freak at the door!" Hermione took advantage of the large opening to duck into the entryway. Petunia Dursley was nonplussed, but seemed to quickly decide that a scene in her entryway was preferable to a scene on her front porch, and shut the door.

"Now see here, I won't have you people waltzing into _my_ house whenever you bloody well please!" Hermione found that there was indeed another like Dudley Dursley in the world, and he was quickly waddling towards her in the form of Vernon Dursley, twice as large and twice as arrogant as his son.

"Hermione?"

She looked to the top of the stairs, where a thin and tired-looking Harry Potter regarded her with a mixture of horror and surprise. She ran up the stairs as he came down to meet her and, without a thought, she wrapped him in a tight hug. He flinched briefly in her arms, before encircling her with his own.

Pulling away, Harry pulled her towards the top of the stairs. "Boy!" Vernon yelled, "I'll have no hanky-panky in my house!"

"What? But she's not…"

"Shut up!" Hermione hissed at him, pushing him up the stairs to the relative safety of his room.

Just inside the door, she halted, staring in wide-eyed horror at the junk yard that was his room. Harry quickly maneuvered them to sit on the bed. "Hermione, why are you here? Is something wrong?"

She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap, and started picking at the hem of her skirt. "Well," she said in a small voice. "I got a letter from Gringotts yesterday. It's about my biological parents." She looked up at him, eyes wide. "I mean, I've always known I was adopted, but I'd never thought…"

In an effort to stem the panic rising in her eyes, he did the only thing guaranteed to focus Hermione: he started asking questions.

"What did the letter say?"

"Read it for yourself. I don't know what I'm going to do, I don't know a thing about wizard banking…" She pulled a heavy parchment envelope from her purse and passed it to him.

_To Miss Hermione Granger,_  
><em>This is to inform you that, as a member of an Ancient House, you will be granted full access to your family accounts upon reaching the age of sixteen. Summaries of the accounts in question, vaults 027 and 221 of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Desprit, are included, to be perused at your leisure. <em>  
><em>May your gold increase,<em>  
><em>Ragnuk<em>  
><em>Head Goblin of Gringotts Bank<em>

Harry looked up at her in shock. "Hermione," he began.

"I know, ironic, isn't it, that the star Mudblood turned out to be nothing more than another sodding Pureblood!" And to Harry's horror, she sniffed wetly.

"I looked them up, of course. My parents, I mean. They and the family Manor were lost in the First War. Seems we're more similar than I thought, Harry." She looked at him with watery eyes, and Harry mustered the courage to lay his hand on her shoulder.

She flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around him for a second time and burying her face in his shoulder. Harry flinched at the sudden contact, but quickly suppressed it in favor of awkwardly patting her on the back in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "Hermione," he said slowly after a minute had passed, "you know this doesn't change anything, don't you?"

She looked at him sharply. "You're still Hermione, greatest witch of her age… and know-it-all bookworm," he said with a crooked grin.

She regarded him for a long moment, so long that Harry wonder if he would soon be on the wrong end of Hermione's temper before she relaxed in his arms.

"You're right, Harry." She said, stepping back from his embrace and squaring her shoulders. She began digging around in her bag. "I've been doing a bit of research..."

Harry burst out laughing.

An indignant sniff was all that signified Hermione heard him as she began pulling books from her bag at an alarming rate. The pile on his bed soon exceed the amount of books that any reasonable human being could be expected to carry. The new leather covers of "A Wizarding Genealogy", "Pure Blood, Pure Culture", and "Distinguishing the Fuss from the Facts: A Comprehensive Guide to Pure Blood Culture" looked out of place on the dingy mattress. They were soon joined by titles that left Harry feeling vaguely ill, a deep chill settling itself in his belly. "Fogging the Mind" and "The Fortress in Your Head: A Beginner's Guide to Occlumency" were the last to join the pile on the mattress, the brightly colored covers glaring up at him mockingly. Harry turned away quickly, over to the window, where the rows of grey roofs did nothing to improve his mood. He cursed the image of Sirius falling through the veil that appeared in his mind's eye. The cold in his belly twisted viciously, and filled him until he choked with the ache of it.

"Harry?" Hermione's hand was warm where it rested on his shoulder and the horrible chill receded a bit. "It wasn't your fault you know, from what you told me about Professor Snape, he doesn't seem to have been a very good Occlumency teacher".

Harry's harsh laugh accompanied this statement. "He never _taught_ me, Hermione! It was just 'Clear your mind, Potter', 'Get up, Potter', 'The Dark Lord will crush you to a pulp, Potter', again and again! It doesn't matter anyway, I _am _hopeless at it, Snape had that much right, the slimy git."

"But you _have_ to learn it, Harry! That's why I brought the books. I've read them and I think they could really help." She smirked, "We'll practice together."

He grinned, until she pulled four of the books out of the pile and dropped them in his lap. "I have to go now, I told my parents I'd be home for dinner. But I'll be back next week. Read these."

"Homework, Professor?" he groaned.

"Get to work, Potter, we haven't got all day."

Harry's startled laugh at her surprisingly accurate portrayal of their not-so-well-liked Potions professor followed her down the stairs. She slipped behind Petunia Dursley, who was assiduously trying to prevent her increasingly loud and red husband from "Getting these freaks out of my house!" The Dursley's didn't notice as one such freak escaped onto the perfectly manicured sidewalks of Privet Drive, with only a backwards glance for the freak watching from the upstairs window. 

**Authors' note: This is our first collaborative fic, suggestions/critiques are welcome, flames will be extinguished.**

**Purely Yours,**

**The Slytherin Systers**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Hello again! Chapter two has been sitting in limbo for nigh on a month while the SlytherinSysters were separated by the cruelty of geography. We hope you enjoy our latest opus, the next should appear soon. As always, comments are welcome and flames will be extingushed.**

**Please note: this fic is part of a collection of fics to address underlying questions in the Potter fandom such as, "how did Hogwarts get modern plumbing?". For an answer to this question and more, please visit slytherinsys . livejournal . com**

**Purely Yours,**

**The Slytherin Systers**

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><p>Pure Blood Chapter 2<p>

_The man who was not Harry Potter smirked back at him from the portrait. And that, Harry thought, was proof that it wasn't himself he saw there. They didn't look anything alike, not really, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was looking at his own reflection._

_The man who was not Harry Potter was dressed in formal robes, chin raised high, brown gaze open and forehead clear. _

_Brown gaze, no scar. Proof. It couldn't be him._

_Harry tore his eyes away from the eerie portrait to look down the long hallway, filled with identical frames, empty of occupants. At the end of the corridor, light shone from under the dark door it vaguely illuminated. A slender hand settled onto his lower back, and Harry flinched around to find the source of the unexpected and familiar touch._

The walls of his bedroom stared back at him. Harry shook his head, trying to clear the last impression of a wry smirk from his mind's eye.

He jerked around at the knock on his door, nearly capsizing the rickety desk chair. Hermione poked her head in, taking in his disheveled appearance and the half-read book that had served, until recently, as his pillow. A look of chagrin crossed his face as he realized with a guilty twinge that the last of his 'homework assignments' remained unfinished.

Hermione walked to the bed, curling up at the foot before pulling things out of her bag. A box of granola bars joined white take-out cartons she'd placed between them. At Harry's raised eyebrow, she pointed to the cartons, and then to the bars. "For now, for later. I know they don't feed you very well, Harry."

He shrugged as he picked at the carton she'd handed him. "Haven't been very hungry lately."

She frowned, and then a wicked grin crept over her face. Clapping her hands to her knees, she asked, "So, how's the homework going?"

Harry chuckled. "'Bout the same as always."

Hermione joined him in a laugh.

By the end of the month, Hermione was looking far too comfortable curled up at the end of his bed like a cat. One of the monstrously large Occlumency tomes was open on her lap, and she'd been quizzing him for the past hour on the theory of mental shielding. Another correctly answered question from Harry, and Hermione closed the book with a thump that jolted him awake mid-doze. "I think we're ready to move on to practical application," she announced.

Harry's exclamation of "Finally!" was met by a sardonic look as Hermione withdrew her wand from her sleeve. "Hermione!" he hissed. "You can't…"

"Funny, _you_ worrying about rules, Harry. You needn't be concerned, though. I've taken care of the Trace."

"The Trace?"

"Yes, Harry," Hermione said, voice slipping into lecture mode, "the Trace, a magic placed on the wands of all wizarding children to monitor underage magic. The same magic that's been getting you into trouble all these years," she added with a grin. "I'm afraid, though, it's not very specific – that's how you got blamed for Dobby."

"But Dobby never touched my wand!"

"He's a house elf, Harry, not stupid. I'll bet he used your wand as a Focus – what better way to keep 'Harry Potter' out of Hogwarts than to get you in trouble not only with your... _relatives_, but also with the Ministry for underage magic? It really was quite brilliant…"

Harry stared at her for a minute, "Okay…but what's a Focus?"

"Oh, of course, how silly of me. You know, you really should spend some more time in the library, Harry. A Focus is an object, through which a wizard or witch can channel his or her magic to increase the accuracy and casting ability."

Harry's mind flashed back to Professor Trelawny's voice insisting they envelope their crystals balls with "your very essences, dears".

"So, like a crystal ball?"

Hermione grimaced. "…Yes, though traditionally, witches and wizards have used staffs, swords, rings and, of course, wands."

"So, you're saying that Dobby used my wand as a Focus and, because my wand had the Trace on it, it registered as me doing underage magic?"

"Precisely," she chirped. She sobered quickly, "After the Department of Mysteries, I realized I was the only thing standing between my parents and a magical attack. I can't afford to leave them unprotected, even while I'm at school. I needed to ward them, to keep them safe. The wards have to be cast on site, but we're not allowed to do magic outside of Hogwarts. So…I removed the Trace." She looked at him fiercely. "I won't leave them vulnerable, I _won't_."

Harry shook his head slowly. "They're only in danger because of me."

"That's not your fault, Harry. But that's not really what this is about, is it?"

Harry got up suddenly from the bed. "It's my fault he's dead, Hermione. _My_ fault. He went to the Department because of _me_. He fought _because of_ _me_. Everyone says it's not my fault, but they're wrong. If I'd trusted Snape more, if I'd trusted Kreacher less, if I'd listened to you, _none_ of it would have happened. You wouldn't have been hurt, Neville's nose wouldn't have been broken, Ron wouldn't have been attacked by those brain things, and _Sirius wouldn't be dead_.

"People around me die, and it's because of me, because of some stupid, bloody prophecy that says I have to be the one to kill Voldemort! A prophecy I didn't even _know_ about until a month ago, because Dumbledore thinks I'm too young to understand. But I understand, I understand about death. I remember watching Quirrel's face burn up in my hands. I remember dying as the basilisk venom crept through my veins. I remember the sound of my mum's last scream. I remember Cedric's face right before the green light hit him. And I _can't forget_ Sirius falling through the Veil. I see it every night, Hermione. And it's all my fault."

"You're right, Sirius' death is your fault."

Harry's head snapped up to look at her with a mixture of hurt and astonishment.

Hermione continued, "It's your fault he loved you so much, and it's your fault that you loved him so much, that you broke out of Hogwarts on the back of a _thestral_ to save him. Sure, a bit more progress with Occlumency and you might not have fallen for that trick, but he came to help you for the same reason you went after him – he loved you so much, he couldn't bear to see you hurt.

"We can't stop people from dying, Harry. This is a war. People need to fight for what they love, and when people fight, people die. All we can do is our best, and right now, that's perfecting Occlumency so Voldemort can't do that to you again." She stood up and faced him. "Let's test your shields.

"Oh, and by the way, I'm going to want the exact words of that prophecy of yours," she said, leveling her wand at him.

Lips quirked, he met her gaze. His guilt had been seen, judged and acknowledged. It was time to move on, time to fight back.

"_Legilimens_!"

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><p><strong>And thus the end to another scintillating section of our fic. Such epicness would not have been possible without the aid of our four lovely Betas, C,T,V,and H. Please note as well that the first line of this chapter was shamelessly "borrowed" and fit to size from "Agent of Change" by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller, may their pens never run dry.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: We're back! Isn't it grand. We hope to see you once a week in the future, our schedules permitting. For now, ENJOY!**

Chapter 3

_The hand was back; Harry could feel the warmth of it seeping through his clothes. The touch was oddly reassuring, the fingers curling possessively around the curve of his hip. He leaned back into the embrace, and his eyes fell upon the dark, heavy door standing at the end of the hallway._

Harry panicked. The realization that he was not dreaming, that this was not the time to be leaning into a stranger's embrace, and that he was not alone crashed over him. In desperation, he reached for another memory, any other memory, and hurled it to the forefront of his mind, where Hermione was industriously picking away at his mental shields.

The force of his fear that she would see the door and know that he was too weak to keep these dreams away, like he'd been too weak to keep the dreams of the door at the Ministry away, pushed her abruptly from his mind. The walls of his bedroom took shape around him, Hermione once again sitting at the foot of his bed, panting from her exertions. Harry took a deep breath, and with it came the realization of which memory he had, in his haste, used as a battering ram. A flush crept up his neck.

It had been after a particularly grueling Quiddich practice. Harry had caught the Snitch, in the end. In retrospect, throwing himself bodily off his broom might not have been the best idea. The wrench of his shoulder as had held onto his broom, trying fiercely to keep both it and the Snitch within his grasp, had sent his entire back into painful spasms. He remembered that even getting to the locker room had been an ordeal. He remembered Oliver's offer to work a bit of the tension out after the hot shower had failed to bring him any relief. He remembered the feel of Oliver's hands, cool and strong, along his back.

And he remembered his reaction.

The flush intensified and he ran a hand through hair that had grown as he had, thanks to a steady supply of Hermione's snacks.

She stared back at him, wide-eyed. "Oh. Well, I guess that explains a lot about Cho."

Harry spluttered. "What? What are you…"

"Oh, honestly, Harry, your first kiss from a girl and all you could say was '_wet'_?"

He smiled wryly. "You gotta admit, she was a _hell_ of a Quiddich player."

"But not what you were looking for."

"No," Harry admitted softly.

"Who else knows?"

Harry looked her in the eye with a little fear. "You."

She nodded resolutely and gave him a small smile.

A comfortable silence descended on the room. It had been quiet at Number 4 since Hermione's first visit, after which the Dursleys had resolved to carry on as though the freaks upstairs didn't exist. Hermione was free to come and go as she pleased, so long as she didn't make her presence too noticeable to ignore. However, despite their resolution, Hermione often felt Dudley's gaze on her as she made her way up the stairs.

The silence was interrupted by a sharp tapping on the window. Harry rose quickly and pushed up the sash, letting in a large barn owl, who perched on the desk chair. Harry raised his eyebrows, glancing at Hermione, before untying and unrolling the letter. "It's from Dumbledore," he said.

He began to read aloud, noticing, out of the corner of his eye, Hermione's frown,

"_Dear Harry,_

_If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this coming Friday at eleven P.M. to escort you to the Burrow, where you have been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays,_

_If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter to which I hope to attend on the way to the Burrow. I shall explain this more fully when I see you._

_Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this Friday._

_I am, yours most sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore."_

Harry looked up to see that Hermione's frown had deepened and her face was set in a look of concentration usually reserved for particularly troublesome Arithmancy problems. "What's wrong, Hermione?"

"He's very fond of games, our Headmaster."

At Harry's confused look, she continued. "He tells us just as much as he has to, just enough so that we'll follow him and do what he wants, and not a bit more. I was reading up about my adoption, and you know what I found out? He was there. In fact, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was the _only_ witness to the adoption of Hermione Jane Desprit. Five years, I've been at Hogwarts, so very proud to be the brightest witch of my age, and a mudblood to boot, tearing down pureblood prejudices with every O. Five years, I've been at his school, and he knew and never told me, and I don't know why.

"And now, he's dragging you off gallivanting to God-knows-where in the middle of a war! We've all seen the papers – it's so bad, even the Ministry's doing something." She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I'll be interested to see how much explaining he actually does."

Harry grimaced. "I won't hold my breath. It took five years and an all-out battle against Voldemort for him to tell me about the Prophecy."

"Exactly. If we want any information, we'll have to figure it out ourselves. I got a letter yesterday, inviting me to the Burrow tomorrow, so I can keep an ear out there, but you'll have to watch Dumbledore. Pay attention when you're with him – maybe he'll let something slip."

"Why wouldn't he tell us?"

"I don't know. All I know is, we're not the kids he thinks we are." She stood and slid her bag over her shoulder. "I think we should wait until we're all together to tell Ron about all of this,"

Harry nodded.

"And keep practicing your shields, Harry. I almost got in," she grinned wryly, and then sobered. Standing on her tip-toes, Hermione pressed a kiss to his forehead and whispered, "Be safe," before walking out the door.

With a bemused grin, Harry turned to pen a reply.

"_Dear Professor Dumbledore,…"_

The streetlight outside the window of the smallest bedroom at Number 4 Privet Drive went out. The sudden darkness caused Harry to look up from "_Unusual Occlumens and their Modus Operandi_". The author had been particularly vehement about the need to personalize one's shields as "not everyone's mind resembles a brick wall." Harry glanced around his room, the darkness so absolute it reminded him of nights spent in his cupboard. The familiarity of it was reassuring; there were never any Dursleys in the dark. Harry navigated the darkened room smoothly, bringing to mind another scene of Vernon Dursley cursing the existence of the coffee table in the middle of the night. Harry smiled as an idea took shape in his mind.

He waved his wand as the last of his belongings packed themselves neatly into his trunk, the socks even folding themselves before joining his books and robes.

From the sounds downstairs, Dumbledore's reception at the Dursley's had been nothing short of comical. As Harry trudged down the stairs, trunk in hand, he was met with a purple-faced Uncle Vernon in a puce dressing grown and a genial, smiling Dumbledore arrayed in a surprisingly discreet black traveling cloak.

"Ah, Harry, so good to see you, my boy." He smiled, eyes twinkling.

Harry returned his grin, though it was forced. "Hello, Professor. Shall we?"

"Yes, yes, we've got many things to accomplish tonight, Harry. But first, there is the small matter of your inheritance."

"Inheritance?" Harry and Uncle Vernon spoke nearly in sync.

"Yes, Harry. After he died, Sirius left you Grimmauld Place and reasonable amount of gold."

Harry seethed, and it was only Hermione's words echoing in his head that kept him from cursing the meddlesome old headmaster. "Maybe we can talk about this later, Professor?"

"Nonsense, Harry! What better time than the present?" said Dumbledore, seating himself comfortably on one of Aunt Petunia's immaculate flowered sofas.

_Five years ago would have been nice, _thought Harry as he followed Dumbledore into the sitting room.

Dumbledore continued, "We just need to deal with the small matter of Kreacher."

At the mention of the house-elf that had sent him to the Department of Mysteries, Harry grimaced, but held his tongue. "What do you need me to do?" he gritted out.

"Give him an order. This will confirm that ownership of Grimmauld Place has indeed passed to you. So far, we have been unable to confirm this ourselves. I fear the wards at Grimmauld Place will need to be reset to you before we again use it as Headquarters. "

Harry nodded, "Kreacher!" he called.

With a crack, the grimy house-elf appeared, looking out of place on the pristine white carpeting. "I won't, I won't, I won't take orders from some nasty half-blood, Kreacher won't!"

"Kreacher," Harry said firmly, "return to Grimmauld Place, you are to stay there. You are to allow only me and those who come with me inside the house or the floo. Speak to no one, save me, and take your orders only from me. Is that understood?"

"Yes, _master,_" Kreacher hissed before another crack heralded his departure.

"I would have recommended that you send him to Hogwarts, my dear boy, where he could be looked after by the other elves," Dumbledore stated mildly.

Harry shrugged and met Dumbledore's gaze. "I feel better having Kreacher cut off from contact with anyone, sir, even the house-elves."

He couldn't breathe.

Such was the force of Molly Weasley's hug as he entered the Burrow. He barely managed a grunt in response to a brown-haired Tonks, calling "Wotcher, Harry. Thanks for everything, Molly," as she slipped out the door behind him.

"Oh, Harry dear, it's so good to see you! We weren't expecting you until morning!" She pushed him back to hold him at arm's length. "You're looking very well this summer, dear, and you're nearly as tall as Ron!" She pulled him back into another hug, before finally releasing him.

Harry's head spun as he glanced back at Professor Dumbledore. "I shall see you at Hogwarts, Harry. Evening, Molly," he said, inclining his head formally and slipping once more through the door.

"Are you hungry, Harry?" she asked, already reaching for a bowl of soup.

"No, thank you," he said, covering a yawn. "If you don't mind, I'll just head on up to Ron's room and get some sleep."

"Oh, no, dear. I've prepared Fred and George's room for you, and your trunk is already upstairs. They're off at their flat above the shop. I'll be up for a little while yet, if you need anything. Arthur's due home any minute," she said, glancing at the clock.

All of the hands of the famed Weasley Clock were pointing to Mortal Peril, Harry saw with a queasy feeling. Mr. Weasley's hand switched to travelling as he ascended the stairs, followed by an orange cat with a squashed face.

At the second floor landing, Crookshanks dashed ahead of Harry, into the arms of his mistress, who was perched, apparently waiting, on one of the stairs. When she saw Harry, Hermione leapt to her feet and embraced him, brushing her lips against his cheek. "I'm glad you're safe," she murmured.

Someone cleared their throat behind her, and Harry pulled back to see a sleepy-looking Ron Weasley picking himself up off the stair. "Welcome back, mate," he said, cuffing him lightly on the shoulder.

"Glad to be back," Harry replied with a grin as he pushed open the door to Fred and George's room.

**We give thanks to our wonderful betas, T, V, H, and C, without whom we would be lost in the wasteland of grammatical errors and awkward sentences. Please review – we love to hear your thoughts and questions! (and if you have any predictions, we'd really love to hear those, too!)**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** Hello Darlings, we know, it's been a while. Unfortunately, life has that most infuriating property of propelling one into sequential spirals of doom at the mere drop of a "...and the next chapter should be up next week". Between us we are managing majors in Biochemistry, Neuroscience, German, and a minor in Mathematics, so please bear with us. We may in the future take long-ish breaks which correlate strongly with college exams...never fear! We shall return to the fic time and time again. After all we have, half of the sequel planned out in our heads, the plot bunnies are spawning like...hamsters. They must soon be released for fear of crowding out things like the SNARE complex and the implications of vesicle exocytosis on brain function (things everyone should know!). Thus, we are happy to present to you, after much rambling and a long wait, chapter 4. Enjoy!

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><p>Chapter 4<p>

The squeal of the stairs assaulted Hermione's ears. Covering an ear with one hand, while keeping her balance with the other on the banister, she reached the bottom in a daze, only vaguely aware of how she'd got there in the first place.

The kitchen was awash with early morning sunshine. Two chipper voices called, "Good morning!" from the vicinity of the stove. Hermione spared them only a sluggish thought and a grimace as she made her way through the kitchen. It was only after a few minutes and half a cup of scalding black coffee that she began to take stock of her surroundings.

Bill Weasley was seated across the table from her, looking far too amused for early morning. The source of his amusement soon became clear as Molly and Fleur bustled over, both trying to refill his coffee cup while surreptitiously elbowing the other out of the way. Bill accepted half a cup from each with a smile, and they returned to jockeying over the stove. "So, what do you think of the coffee?" he asked.

"Oh," said Hermione, taking another sip. "Yes, it's very good."

Bill smiled. "I found it on a trip to Turkey. This stuff'll keep you going all day."

"What were you in Turkey for? I thought you'd been working in Egypt."

"I had, for the most part. The Turkish office was running a little short-staffed last year. I got transferred to help with the transition for a bit, and got absolutely addicted to this."

Thanks to the coffee, Hermione felt the last vestiges of sleep leave her as she settled comfortably into an academic frame of mind. "I've been meaning to ask you about what it means to be a curse breaker. NEWTS are coming up soon, and I've been exploring my options. It seems like a wonderful way to explore the history of magic and magical civilizations."

Bill straightened in his chair, his pose eerily reminiscent of his father's during the latter's last monologue on the brilliance of Muggle light bulbs. "That's a wonderful question, Hermione. You wouldn't believe the number of wizards who think it's all danger and gold. They have no idea the amount of time, effort, and creativity it takes to head off a curse, let alone dismantle even the most straight-forward of wards. They're old and beautiful, a snapshot of the time they were created in and the people they protected. There's always a balance between discovering the secrets that the wards protect and extinguishing the complicated perfection that makes them so beautiful. There's something about magic done to protect and honor, don't you think?" His eyes were alight as he leaned forward, hands shaping the air as he spoke.

Hermione listened avidly, the gears in her head spinning. Part of her was completely enraptured with the thought of seeing that for herself, while some other part honed in on the word 'wards'. Wards could have come in handy last year, could come in handy in the future…

She was startled from her thoughts as the stairs behind her screeched, and turned to see Harry, fully awake and looking sheepish, coming into the kitchen.

Mrs. Weasley looked up from where she was attempting to shovel sausage onto Bill's plate past Fleur's arm. "Don't worry, dear, that last one always catches me, too."

Harry grinned and came to lean against the table. "Hermione, I was wondering if we could have a word."

She regarded him briefly, before answering. "Sure, Harry. Why don't we take a walk? I haven't had a chance to explore yet this summer." Hermione turned to Bill as she stood. "Thanks for sharing the coffee, Bill – it was amazing. Do you think we could talk more about curse-breaking when we get back?"

Bill's eyes flicked between Hermione and Harry. He grinned. "Sure, Hermione. Have a nice time."

As they grabbed their jackets and headed out the door, they missed the conspiratorial glance between Bill and Fleur, as well as Mrs. Weasley's suddenly pensive expression.

Cool summer mist greeted them as they crossed the garden, the hems of their pants quickly damp as they dragged through the wet grass. Beside her, Harry seemed content to let the silence linger as long as it would. That had always been a striking difference between him and Ron – where Ron rushed to fill every moment with noise, Harry was as comfortable as she to let the silence settle around them. And for a while, Hermione too was content to simply walk in silence as dawn eased its way into day.

As they reached the edge of the garden, Harry turned to her. "So, what's been going on here?"

"Not a whole lot. They had an Order meeting two nights ago, but I wasn't able to get close enough to hear, and everyone's been more tight-lipped than ever. I can't figure out why they're meeting here, and not at Grimmauld Place."

"For the same reason Dumbledore wanted to talk to me. Sirius named me his heir, so the house apparently passed to me, but Dumbledore hasn't been able to confirm that the wards won't let just any Black through. It also means that I got stuck with Kreacher."

"You know, if you would just try being nice to him…" Hermione trailed off suddenly, her head whipping around to stare at Harry. "Wait, did you say wards?"

"Yeah, Dumbledore said that they'd have to be reset to me before the Order can use Grimmauld Place again."

Hermione hummed thoughtfully, reaching for his hand as she turned back toward the Burrow. "Oh, I know _just_ the man to ask!"

The Weasleys were awake. Such was apparent from the mass of red hair and noise that had overtaken the kitchen in their absence. Molly and Fleur were still competing for control of the kitchen, as they transferred steaming plates of pancakes and eggs to the table. Ginny, who had just come down the stairs, weaved herself between them to grab a cup of tea, nearly upsetting Molly's plate in the process. Molly's startled cry only added to the din, as Arthur raised his voice in order to more thoroughly describe the potential application of bucky balls in curse-breaking. The twins, just in for breakfast, were seated in between the Weasley patriarch and a dubious-looking Bill.

Fred was the first to catch sight of Harry and Hermione as they stood in the doorway, taking in the scene, still hand-in-hand. He nudged George, who turned and looked at them. As if they'd practiced it, both twins broke out into Cheshire Cat grins with waggling eyebrows. Harry blushed, dropping Hermione's hand as he studiously avoided meeting their eyes.

He slid into a seat at the end of the table as Hermione settled herself next to Bill. Her expression was one Harry had seen often, just before she'd disappear into the recesses of the Hogwarts Library. Harry pitied Bill, briefly, until he saw the look of sheer relief that crossed Bill's face when he was able to turn away from his father and start animatedly engaging Hermione in conversation.

With a wry grin for kindred spirits, he turned back to find Ginny settling a laden plate in front of him, before sliding in next to him, her upper arm pressed firmly to his. Harry made a fatal attempt to reach his fork, only to find Ginny's arm effectively trapping his hand under the table. With a sigh, Harry sat back, nursing a cup of Bill's coffee in his left hand. Well, it wouldn't be the first time he'd gone without breakfast.

* * *

><p><strong>Authors' P.S.<strong> The Christmas Party theme: Naughty or Nice. Our costumes? Two, decidedly _not_ nice Slytherin Systers! Have a happy holiday season everyone! May your finals be easy and your vacation long. Wickedly yours, **_The Slytherin_ Systers**


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